“Hi,” I say. “I’m so sorry to get you up so early.”
Porter’s hand presses on my back, like he wants to reassure me.
“I was already up, feeding the horses,” she says good-naturedly. “And now I can do some shopping in New York. I should thank you.”
I appreciate her effort to put me at ease, but when I see the cabin, I start to feel sick again. It’s over-the-top luxurious, pristine tan and cream couches and chairs, small but elegant tables fixed next to the seats. It’s gorgeous. Even the shades on the windows are custom fabric and not the hard plastic things I’m used to. I can’t even imagine how much it will cost in fuel to fly it halfway across the continent. All this just to get me to New York. If I weren’t so worried about Stacy, I’d be running out.
A flight attendant emerges from the back of the plane to take the backpack. “Good morning to you both,” she says.
“I’ll be right back,” Porter says, steering me to a seat.
The material is soft, supple, and the chair is so comfortable it’s hard to believe I’m on an airplane.
“Can I offer you something to eat or drink?” the flight attendant asks.
“What do you have?” I’m not thirsty, but I’m nervous, and I want something to do with my hands, which are still trembling.
“Anything you want,” she says.
“A mimosa?”
“That’s festive. Coming right up.” She seems so happy.
And then I realize it’s Christmas Day. All these people were dragged out of bed at dawn on Christmas Day because of me.
Immediately I feel even worse.
Porter reappears. “We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me.
“Porter,” I say, but I can’t continue.
He leans forward and gently touches my knee. “Did you get another phone call?”
“No. I…” Before I can explain, the flight attendant returns carrying a tray with two drinks. She places the mimosa on the little table. “Thank you,” I say, barely holding back from apologizing.
Porter gets coffee. Unless she emptied a few shots of peppermint schnapps in it, I’m the only one drinking. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any shittier. Miserable, I take a sip of my mimosa. The bubbles and citrus mix perfectly in my mouth, but I can’t enjoy the drink.
“Will it help if I hold your hand?” Porter asks.
The last thing I want is to take another favor from anyone, especially Porter, but if I say no I’ll be lying. So instead I say nothing at all.
He takes my hand, holding it between his. “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he says.
“I’m not going through anything. My sister is.” It comes out a little harshly, and I shake my head. “Don’t listen to me, Porter. I’m…” I’m sick of myself. I feel selfish and guilty, and angry because I should have picked up extra shifts or done whatever it took to fly home for the holidays. I should have been there. “I appreciate that you’re doing this, but it doesn’t seem fair to have dragged your crew away from their families on Christmas.”
Porter’s smile is warm. “Lisa, the attendant, loves working holidays because she knows she’ll get a nice bonus. One of the pilots is based in New York, and the other lives in Florida. None of them live here.”
“Oh,” I say. What he’s telling me makes sense. “In that case, I guess you’re the bad guy for dragging them out here for the holidays.”
He grins. “I’m very fair to my employees. Later, when I use the bathroom, you can ask Lisa.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
The plane’s engines become a little louder, though not much, and soon we begin to move. The ride is so smooth, if I closed my eyes I would think we were sitting still. Gradually, I become aware of Porter’s hands around mine, cupping my fingers between his. Even though sex should be the last thing on my mind, the sensations and images from last night press to the front.
A quick glance around and I notice Lisa is out of sight, out of earshot. “How can you tell if a woman is kinky?” I ask.
Porter seems to consider that before frowning. “I don’t know. How?”
I almost laugh when I realize he thought I was asking him a joke. “No, it’s a serious question. How can you tell?”
Porter does laugh, then he leans toward the window. “This is my favorite part. I like watching the mountains become small. Humanity’s response to the awesome scope of the natural world.”
“Distance,” I say.
“Distance and perspective.”
Now I laugh. “It’s like we’re back in art appreciation class,” I say.
“I’m going to nod, and you’re going to pretend I said something that adds to the conversation, because I don’t remember a damned thing from that class.”
“Really? I feel like I’m always seeing or hearing something that reminds me.” Which is funny, because I spent more time staring at Porter than taking notes, but I guess it got into my mind somehow. He doesn’t need to know that, though. “I’d never taken any kind of art class before. It was like a new world opening up. After I landed the job in the city, I loved going to art museums.”
“The resort village and town have world-class art galleries,” Porter says. “I assume you attend the openings?”
I shake my head, and even though it feels natural to take a sip of my drink, unless I take my hand out of Porter’s grasp, I’ll have to reach over with my other arm. It would be so awkward that Porter would probably release me.
I don’t want him to let go. Ever.
“No,” I say. “The galleries are for people thinking about buying the art,” I say. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to go there. Even if I didn’t drink their wine and snack on the hors d’oeuvres, I’d be taking up space that should go to a potential customer.”
“That’s…” He frowns. “The saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You work in banking. I’m sure you’ve heard sadder.”
Porter squints into the distance. “No, actually, I haven’t. First, how do you know you’re not a potential customer?” His golden eyes probe mine as he waits patiently for an answer.
“Because I’m broke,” I say simply. “I guess you figured that out twenty seconds after seeing where I live.”
“I love where you live,” he says. He seems to mean it.
“Then you’re insane. There’s nothing romantic about poverty.”
“No, there isn’t. At the risk of sounding elitist, when I see your apartment, I don’t think about poverty. I think I’m in the home of someone who lives on the mountains. What better furniture than resting on a pair of skis? What better decoration than newly falling snow? Show me a sound system that can rival the whispers of the wind through the firs.”
What he just said is so poetic that I simply stare at him. For all the ways that he’s changed, Porter Loughton hasn’t changed at all, not deep down.
He slowly shakes his head. “I’m not so naive as to suggest that your life is easier than mine because you’re doing something you love and I’m getting rich.”
“There’s not much freedom in being broke,” I say.
“But you seem to have struck a good balance, right?”
“Yes.” Now I reach for the glass and take a sip. I don’t know why, but I can’t tell Porter the truth, that I’m much more afraid of the future than I let on. I joke about begging for spare change to hide my fear. That the freedom I’m enjoying in my twenties is sure to turn into some kind of corporate servitude at some point in my thirties—and that’s if I’m lucky enough to get a job.
I try to tell myself that I’m keeping quiet because I don’t want to spoil his dreams about the snow bum lifestyle, but deep down I know the truth is far more prosaic. Porter thinks I’m wise for having run away from the corporate world, and I want to believe him.
I also don’t want him to think I make bad decisions.
“You
should attend gallery openings,” he says soberly, his eyes fixed on mine. “Tell me something. When you’re giving ski lessons, do people ask the name of your favorite bar? The best place to buy a sandwich? Which ski shop they should go to if they need a tune-up?”
“Yes, of course.” I can see where he’s going with this. “But no one has ever asked me where to buy a painting.”
“Do they ask you for suggestions of things to do? Where you go shopping? What you think is worth checking out?”
My cheeks begin to heat. “Fair enough, but I don’t think… Those paintings are tens of thousand of dollars…” I trail off.
“Some of them are many times that, but the price is irrelevant. I can guarantee you that if someone asks your opinion, it’s because they’re looking for insight. I know that when I travel, if a trusted local recommends something, I check it out.”
“Then maybe I should work out a special deal with one of the galleries.” I lift my eyebrows and try to look enterprising and unscrupulous, and Porter laughs. “Your coffee is getting cold,” I point out.
“There’s more coffee,” he says. But he releases my hand and settles back in his seat to study me.
“What?” I ask, fighting a smile as I take another small sip of the mimosa. It helps to pop my ears.
“Body language,” he says.
I stare at him in confusion.
“A lowering of the eyes, a blush. The way a woman pushes her hair behind her shoulders and tilts her head to expose her neck. The way she licks her lips, or parts them, or crosses her legs, or begins to fuss with her clothing. That’s how I know a woman is submissive.”
“Wow,” I say, spreading my hands out flat and pressing them on my thighs. “If you wanted to make me self-conscious, you’ve succeeded.” Even though I say it as a joke, we both know better.
“You can tell when a man is dominant,” he says. “The way he stands, how much space he takes up, when he keeps his shoulders back. Where he allows himself to look.” Porter’s gaze dips to my lips. “And for how long.” His gaze slowly rises to my eyes, and my face feels as hot as if I were standing next to an open fire.
It’s not just my face that’s on fire. My entire body wants him. Part of me feels guilty for being anything but grief-stricken right now, but a bigger part of me is grateful for the distraction Porter is providing. My worries about my sister are still there, a terrifying panic lurking under the surface, but Porter is shielding me from the worst of it.
“Am I wrong?” he asks.
Slowly, I shake my head.
“You don’t seem convinced. Let me put it like this. You’ve surely known men who cross a line when they look at you. It’s not necessarily that he’s staring where he shouldn’t, but he’s not following the rules. He’s creepy.”
I nod. “Every woman on the planet has experienced that at some point.”
“Nice men do the opposite. They look away. They give you privacy. I’m saying ‘men’ here, but really it’s a human thing. A woman could as easily do it. Sexual dominance, for me, is often a subset of social dominance. I would never stare at a woman to make her uncomfortable unless I was certain she wanted the attention, the intensity.”
“You’re saying that a dominant man is a pig who’s been invited to act like a pig.”
“When you put it like that, no. But let me confess something. I liked it when you begged for my cock. I liked making you get on your knees. When you gagged on my cock but then fought past the discomfort, I almost came right then. Dominating you is raw. It’s power. I’m male. You’re female. The fact is that I’m stronger than you are. By giving you a safe word, we’re acknowledging that truth. It gives me permission to be male, and it gives you permission to be female.”
“Damn.” I’m beginning to tremble.
Porter rests his elbow on the armrest as he scrutinizes me.
As he does, I ask myself how I’d be feeling right now if he were a man I disliked. Of course, I’d hate it. But objectively speaking…
“I’m crossing a line right now,” he says. “But it’s a line you want me to cross. What turns me on is turning my boundaries into your boundaries. I find it sexy when you’re uncomfortable but you agree to what I want. Some dominant men I know wouldn’t be happy to keep that in the bedroom. Some want the relationship to extend to every area of their lives. Others don’t want a relationship at all. And still others are nothing but abusive assholes—cowards, really.” He smiles, and his face relaxes.
I relax, too.
“You should know that there are as many different theories on dominance and submission as there are dominants and submissives. What I gave you is mine. Now tell me yours.”
“Mine?” I notice that I’ve been pressing my fingertips into the area just under my collarbone. “But I’ve never had a man dominate me before last night.”
“No,” he says with a smile that might be a little self-satisfied, “but I know you’ve thought about it extensively. What did you like about last night?”
“Everything,” I say quickly.
“Think about it. Put it into words. Try to figure out where the physical feeds into the emotional.” He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, then presses a button on the side of the armrest.
Lisa walks over, and I realize she must have her own private section somewhere. If that’s the case, it’s not a bad deal. Fly around in luxury, and all she has to do is mix some drinks and bring out the occasional bag of peanuts.
“The quiche is almost ready,” she says.
“Perfect. Could you bring me a hot chocolate with whipped cream?”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“Emily?” Porter asks.
I shake my head. Even though I’d love a hot chocolate, I don’t want to inconvenience Lisa. Porter is watching me closely, and I think about what he said. He’s right. It’s about his gaze, his attention.
“The hot chocolate is for you,” Porter says as she walks away.
“Why?” I ask, baffled.
“You ordered one almost every night that first month of college,” he says. “Don’t you remember?”
I don’t… and then I do. “I completely forgot about that.”
“Well, you were drinking them. I had to watch you lap at the whipped cream. Even once was enough to burn it into my memory, but dozens of times? It’s a wonder I didn’t flunk out.”
“Wow.” I laugh, surprised. “I remember now. I stopped drinking them because of the freshman fifteen.”
“It filled you out in all the right places,” he says, and this time I don’t feel like I should be pushing away his compliment.
He’s dominant. He’s the male. He looks and isn’t afraid to say what he thinks.
Now that he’s put it into words, I find that I can accept it. Porter is right—it’s liberating.
Lisa returns with a black mug and sets it in front of Porter. A swirl of creamy whipped cream tops it.
“I’ll let you know when we’re ready to eat,” Porter says.
She smiles her acknowledgement and disappears.
He crosses his arms. “Go ahead.”
I pick up the cup. The scents of chocolate and warm milk are like a balm. The tip of my tongue darts out to lap at the freshly whipped cream.
As I stare into Porter’s eyes, the years seem to fold in on themselves, then disappear.
“That,” Porter says as I lick cream from the corner of my lip, “is the best Christmas present a man could ask for.”
“Really?” I ask, skeptical.
“Well… I do have a special room in New York, but we shouldn’t talk about that now.”
“Why not?” I ask. His “special room” is exactly what I want to talk about.
“Because if we do,” he says, “I’ll likely end up fucking you, and that’s not what you need right now. Right now I think it’s better if we just talk while you drink hot cocoa.”
That I can do.
Chapter Thirteen
The hospital is e
normous, imposing. I don’t want to go in.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?” Porter asks as he brings the car—a four-wheel drive sedan that I’m pretty sure costs six figures for the base model—to a stop.
His offer is sincere, but I can’t steal more of his time today. It wouldn’t be fair.
“I appreciate it, but it’s probably better if we keep it to family,” I say. “I don’t want to add to anyone’s stress.”
Porter accepts that with a nod. “If you need me, you have my number. I’ll be in the city.”
“Overlooking Central Park?” I manage a smile, but I’m exhausted. “Maybe…”
“Yes?”
“I was going to say that I’ll give you an update when I have one,” I say. “But only if you want me to.”
“Of course I want you to,” Porter says. “I’ll be thinking of you and your family.” He waits in front of the hospital until I’m through the first set of glass doors, and I give him a little wave goodbye.
The moment his car pulls away, I feel lonely, like the best part of myself has been ripped out. Of course that’s ridiculous. It was only one night.
A night that seemed to cut out all the intervening years and stitch seamlessly with freshman fall. That’s what runs through my mind as I take the elevator to the floor Greg indicated in his phone call. My feelings about Porter are surely heightened because of the mind-blowing, amazing sex combined with my emotional vulnerability, but damn if it doesn’t feel real, like the start of the rest of my life.
The elevator dings, the door slides open, and my night with Porter becomes a thing of the past. The sterile hospital is my present.
I check in at the desk and am given directions to the obstetric surgical ward. Even though this isn’t the hospital our mother was taken to, I feel like it is, like I’ve made this trek before. I was nine at the time, but I remember it acutely.
A bathroom door opens, and Greg steps out. He’s got a ragged piece of white paper towel in his hands.
“Hey,” I say softly, because even though he’s almost looking at me, it’s clear he doesn’t see me.
He blinks. “Stacy’s out of surgery. She’s going to be fine.” In a flash, his composure shatters. I’ve never seen a grown man sob before. Even when Mom died, Dad put on a brave face for the kids.
Melted and Whipped Page 7
